The Right Words
by gweniveres
Summary: After the events at Adamant. Varric and Cassandra attempt to say what needs to be said.


The main hall was empty but for one person. The only light came from the fireplace beside him, still roaring and flickering. He sat at his usual table, slouching, one hand on his forehead, the other tapping a quill against a piece of paper.

Cassandra hesitated at the door, but she'd made her mind up. She walked to him and sat down at his table. He didn't acknowledge her, didn't so much as glance up. She carefully placed a book between them, her fingers lingering on the cover. "I came to return this."

"You don't have to do that, Seeker," Varric said softly. The orange light of the fire flickered and wavered, making it hard to read his expression.

"You will need it, to edit," she said, pushing the book toward him.

"I think I'm done with that series," he said. He paused and took a breath that had a hitch in it. "You keep that. Consider it a gift."

She leaned back in her chair, biting the inside of her cheek. He kept tapping his quill against the paper, looking down at the blank whiteness in front of him. She wondered how he'd gotten the scar on his nose. She'd never asked. Bar fight, probably. The light of the fireplace threw shadows that deepened the hollows of his cheeks, making him look gaunt and old.

"Varric," she said, struggling to find the words she wanted. He was so good with words. He could capture a scene, a feeling, a moment in time so well that it took her breath away. She, on the other hand, fumbled and fell and stuck her foot in her mouth more often than not.

"Don't," he snapped, closing his eyes tightly. "Don't pity me. I don't need it. Not from you. Not from anyone. But especially not from you." His voice was so thick with venom that her chest hurt. She clenched her hands into fists, looking at her lap.

"I have lost friends, too," she hissed. "I know-"

"You DON'T know," he said, slamming his fist on the table. She jumped, startled, staring at him with wide eyes and open mouth. "You don't know me. You didn't know her. You don't know anything about us!"

Cassandra's throat felt dry and tight. His eyes sparkled as he glared at her, mouth drawn back in a sneer. "You loved her," she said, her voice soft and hoarse.

He snorted. "Not the way you think," he replied. He stared down at the table, jaw set, breathing heavily. With a shout of fury, he grabbed the book she had set before him and threw it into the fire.

"No!" Cassandra cried, springing to her feet. She dashed around the table, falling to her knees before the fire. She reached out, wanting to yank the book away, but pulled her hands back with a gasp of pain. The fire was too hot, too hungry. Already the pages were curling, blackening.

"Leave it, Seeker," Varric said bitterly, sitting back in his seat, head in hands. Cassandra knelt there, staring into the fireplace. The fire burned her eyes, made the skin on her face feel tight and hot. She sat there, watching the book burn. Small pieces of ash floated up, carried by the heat, edges burning red as they fluttered up the chimney. The only sound in the hall was that crackling, angry fire, ripping the book to shreds and swallowing it whole. Cassandra stayed still, watching until the last page had burnt up and disappeared.

Finally, she closed her eyes, which had begun to water. "The man I loved," she said, voice breaking, "died at the conclave. His body was incinerated in an instant. All I have is his memory." Her chest felt as though someone had pushed icicles through her, piercing her lungs. She could almost taste the blood in the back of her throat.

He was quiet for a long time. Then he let out a shuddering breath. "I don't know what to write. How do you tell someone-" Before he could finish the sentence, a sob broke past his lips. He choked, covering his face, shoulders shaking. Tears pattered down onto the paper, darkening it. His muffled sobs were harsh, broken, like quiet screams of agony.

Cassandra rose. She pulled a chair up next to him and draped her arm across his shoulders. Quietly, in a voice that held an unusual note of tenderness, she murmured a prayer for Hawke and then another for Varric.

"You will find the words," she said, dipping her head so she spoke next to his ear. "You always do."


End file.
